I felt nauseated. I ran to the bathroom and vomited. When I came back, Bogdan was still watching, engrossed. It was clear—there was armed conflict in Macedonia. “They’re going to kill each other. Albanians and Macedonians just can’t live together,” he said. That’s what all the film coverage and commentaries demonstrated in the days that followed, and for several months thereafter. One particular event circled the globe: An interpreter was killed, along with representatives of the United Nations Protection Force, while traveling in an armored vehicle through Skopje streets. The interpreter’s husband cried as he spoke. She had left behind a two-month-old baby. She hadn’t needed to work, but a colleague had other obligations and begged Mimosa to take her place that day. Both women were daughters of a Macedonian mother and an Albanian father. Because I was upset by these events, I hadn’t noticed how often I felt sick to my stomach. I bought a pregnancy test. I was pregnant.
